The Price of Peace
by Lil Lupin
Summary: 4th November 1981. Remus Lupin visits his father.


**Disclaimer: **Everything you recognise belongs to J.K. Rowling; I'm grateful to her for allowing me to borrow it all for a little while.

**A/N: **An unusual move for me; I'm not a great angst-lover, nor terribly talented at one-shots. But this popped into my head whilst washing the dishes and wouldn't budge so I sat down and gave in.

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It was forecast to be the wettest fourth of November on record. The sky seemed somehow determined to fulfil this prediction: the clouds had been a dark grey all day, hanging low over most of Britain and the rain had been relentless. On and on it went, the water running in rivers down the streets in the towns, the country fields becoming saturated to the point the water simply sat in pools, and everywhere showers of water hammering down on those individuals foolish enough to be out in this weather.

Remus Lupin trudged through the small community of Glynfach, his head bowed as the rain drops pelted his head and shoulders, soaking his sandy hair and drenching his clothes. He had Apparated only a hundred metres away, but his shoes were already waterlogged and the bottom of his trousers dark with water stains. The few people about hurried past him, their umbrellas up, occasionally glancing at the strange sight of this man, pale and soaked, making no effort to protect himself from the relentless weather, his face white and his expression utterly miserable. But no one approached him, either because they were too eager to be on their own way or perhaps because there was a haunted look in his green eyes they didn't like. This didn't bother Remus: he was naturally shy and avoided strangers anyway, and today there was only one place he wanted to be.

The house was a little way out of town, down a path that had already become a miniature stream and looked like it was in danger of flooding properly. It had happened a few times before. It would not, of course, have been a problem for Remus, who could have cleared the water with a wave of his wand, but he was in no mood to cast spells. And so he waded along the path, towards the little white house with its cheerful Gryffindor-red door and its small, neat front garden.

Once on the doorstep, however, Remus found he could not even lift his hand to knock at the door. He was so _tired. _Instead, he closed his eyes, lifting his face to the sky, letting the rain hit his skin and the water from his hair run in rivets down the back of his neck, as though by doing so it would somehow wash away the pain of the last four days.

But it could not. Nothing could. And nothing ever would. Remus didn't know for certain then, though he suspected it, that he would carry this pain with him to his grave.

He had come here, the only possible place he felt he could go, unable to face the others still left in the Order, with their terrible expressions – a mixture of pity and guilt that Remus knew had very little to do with the pain he was carrying and everything to do with their surprise that it had not been _him _who had been the spy. Dumbledore alone might have conveyed something different, something comforting, but he was too busy in the aftermath of everything that had happened, and so Remus had been left to carry this alone.

He didn't need to. There was one person – one person who might not quite understand but would certainly give him his full attention, who would not be distracted by their own mourning, their own guilt, or their own celebrations that the Dark Lord had finally fallen.

He had to do it.

Remus raised his hand and, balling it into a fist, knocked three times.

Footsteps on the other side of the door, and then it swung open and Remus came face to face with another man. If one looked carefully, they might have been able to see the similarities between the two: they had the same pale green eyes, tall, wiry stature though Remus was thinner, and bump in the middle of their identical noses.

"Oh, Remus," his father said. "I'm so sorry."

The three words were too much to bear; Remus, who had been so calm, so _numb _through it all, suddenly found himself screwing his face up in a desperate attempt not to cry in front of his father at the ripe age of twenty-one. _Twenty-one_. After everything, it seemed incredible that he could be that young. He felt so _old._

He was still standing on the doorstep; Lyall Lupin yanked him gently inside, closed the door and, perhaps unsurprisingly for a man who had always been the kindest Remus knew, pulled his drenched son into a tight embrace. And then Remus could not hold it in any longer – the pain he felt he had been carrying silently for an eternity suddenly erupted in a howl of misery and he found himself shuddering against his father, the only person he had left in the world who cared about him as much as _they _had.

_God. _It physically _hurt _to think he would never see James's crooked smile again; Lily's bright green eyes, full of kindness; Peter's shy, delighted expression, as if he still couldn't quite believe he had such brilliant friends.

And _Sirius…_

_Sirius _had been the spy… _Sirius, _who was always so pleased to see Harry, who treated Lily like a sister, who had fought beside them countless times, always the same, scared expression on his face at the end of the battle as though convinced he'd lost them all in a moment of carelessness.

It beggared belief.

"You…you heard about Peter?" Remus choked, pulling backwards from his father and wiping his face with his sleeve. It was a miracle, frankly, his father had heard about any of it – he had kept well out of the war and, although he continued to use magic, had immersed himself with vigour in the Muggle village of Glynfach as though it would somehow bring him closer to his late, non-magical wife, Remus's mother. It was a bit touch and go these days whether his father even bothered getting the _Daily Prophet. _But as his father nodded, Remus spied the newspapers through the kitchen door, lying on the kitchen table, screaming the headlines Remus wanted so desperately to forget.

_You-Know-Who Dead and Gone!_

_Boy-Who-Lived Defeats Greatest Dark Wizard of Our Age!_

_The Potters: Family History on Page 2!_

_Disinherited Black Heir Kills Thirteen Muggles in One Blast!_

_Peter Pettigrew Awarded Posthumous Order of Merlin!_

"Always said there was something wrong with that Black, ever since – " His father cut himself off as he steered Remus into the living room, but Remus knew what he was about to say. _Ever since Sirius had tried to kill Snape in their fifth year. _ _Merlin. _Remus felt so _stupid _now – and so _angry _with James, who had maintained it had been a mistake, who had blindly trusted Sirius and refused to hear a word against him. Sirius had already proved himself capable of murder long ago. Why had none of them seen it?

"He killed James and Lily," Remus mumbled as his father helped him to sit down and cast a drying charm on him before conjuring two steaming cups of tea onto the small coffee table.

"I thought it was You-Know-Who? Was Black there too?"

"No," Remus muttered. His throat was so stupidly _tight_. "James and Lily went into hiding and they used Sirius…Black as their secret keeper – only he knew where they were. But…but he was a spy for Voldemort; that's how Voldemort found them – and…and that's why Peter went after him…" He bent over, his head in his hands, shaking once more, suddenly so angry with _all _of them: James, who had trusted Sirius beyond them all; Lily, who had not talked James out of it; Peter, who had gone after Sirius rather than seeking out Remus so that they could mourn together; and Sirius, who had fooled them all so spectacularly, who had betrayed the friends who would have died for him without thinking twice about it.

Remus knew, suddenly, that if Peter had not gone after Sirius, he would have done: he would not have been able to keep himself from wringing Sirius's neck with his bare hands, for doing this to him – for doing this to _all _of them…

It ought to have scared him. He had killed people – had _had _to, to save himself and his friends – but he had never _wanted _to kill, to murder in cold blood. But he had never hated anyone as much as he hated Sirius at that moment.

But Sirius was far away out of Remus's reach, now – thrown in Azkaban without a trial with a life sentence. The pictures in the _Prophet _had showed him laughing – _laughing_ – as he had been taken away. Lyall Lupin was right: there _was _something wrong with him.

"When's the funeral?" his father asked gently.

"Which one?" asked Remus without a trace of humour in his voice. He lifted his head; reached out to take the tea from the coffee table. He took a sip, grateful for the way the hot liquid soothed his throat. "Lily and James's is next week, but it'll be huge and it's the day after the full moon anyway…" A small, resentful part of him knew Lily and James never would have allowed it: they would have _made _sure he could go, just as they had scheduled their wedding purposefully to avoid his blasted transformation. "A few of us are having a small memorial later in the week. Peter's…well, there's no body. His mother hasn't said anything about it yet."

At some point he would have to drop in on Mrs Pettigrew – it would be horribly rude not to – but Remus couldn't quite bring himself to do it yet.

"And what are you going to do now?" Lyall asked.

Remus closed his eyes, pressing his lips together. It should not have been something that crossed his mind – he should have been totally focused on mourning for his dead friends – but it was a question that _had _to be asked, because it had been James who had supported him since he had left school and now he was gone.

"You can stay here, Remus," his father said softly. "You know I'm always pleased to have you."

It was overwhelmingly tempting, to bury himself away in this little village in the Welsh Rhondda Valley, but Remus could not do that to his father, who had been settled there for three peaceful years. There was nowhere for a werewolf to be contained here. And it was simply not _fair_ to Lyall Lupin, who had spent years of his life moving from place to place and taking responsibility for hm.

"No, Dad," he said, and gave his father a quick, brief smile that was likely more of a grimace because it felt recently as though he'd forgotten how to use the muscles in his face properly. "It's OK. I'll find a job now the war's over."

The chances of Remus being able to hang on to a job for very long were slim, and they both knew it. But Lyall knew his son well enough not to argue.

"At least stay for a few days," he said.

Remus knew his father missed Hope Lupin, and he had nothing to go back to in London; it would be churlish and unkind to refuse. And so he nodded and took another sip of tea.

"Does it ever get any easier?" he muttered. He, of course, had lost a mother in Hope Lupin, two years before, but it had not seemed so significant at the time: he had always loved his kind, sweet mother, but as long as he had his friends by his side, he had felt he could get through anything. James, who had lost his own mother not too long before, had cheered him up in the way that only James knew how. It had not hurt the way _this _hurt – to lose all of his best friends at once, in a particularly cruel twist of fate. Of _betrayal, _he reminded himself. This was nothing to do with fate. This was all down to Sirius.

"I wish I could say it does," his father murmured.

It was not the most comforting thing Remus could have wished to hear, but he had always appreciated honesty, even if it, occasionally, took some reflection for him to do so.

"You just have to hang on," Lyall continued. "The pain doesn't get any easier to bear, but you will move on. You'll find solace somewhere."

They were words easily spoken for someone who was not a werewolf. Twelve long, lonely years stretched in front of Remus Lupin, alone and friendless, barely able to live within his limited means. He would get the shock of his life twelve years later – pain like someone had stabbed him through the heart – when he came face-to-face with an unconscious boy he would have sworn blind, if it were not for the scar on his forehead, a thirteen year-old James. It was somehow worse – though at the same time, an odd relief to his deep-set wounds – that Harry was so much like them both, with all of Lily's thoughtfulness and plenty of James's reckless bravery. But shortly after that – no time at all, really, given how long Remus had carried this burden by himself – Remus would learn he was not the only one. And it did not _lessen _the pain, exactly, but it did make it easier, having someone to share it with; knowing he was no longer alone.

The real solace of which Lyall Lupin spoke of, however, would not come for sixteen years, when, at last, Remus would have two people he finally loved as much as those he'd already lost. His father was not there to see it – to see his tiny grandson held in his daughter-in-law's arms, his tufts of hair already a shocking blue. But Remus had no doubt that his father was smiling, somewhere, pleased that his son had finally come to terms with all he'd lost in his young life.

Remus Lupin did not know any of this as he sat in his father's living room in Glynfach on the fourth of November 1981, with rain beating against the windows and the tea cooling rapidly in his trembling hands. He could not even bring himself to be optimistic.

Because whilst the whole country was still beside itself with jubilation at the fact the war was finally over, all Remus could think was how it had cost him everything.

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**A/N: Please review;** it means so much to know what people think, and I appreciate every word!


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